


Metals & Mettle

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Advent Amnesty Stories [9]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Genre: Advent Amnesty, Aftermath of Violence, Case Fic, Crossover, Gen, Girl Saves Boy, I will finish this, Miss Marple being awesome, Title Subject to Change, WIP Amnesty, Women Being Awesome, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8854210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: When an American enlisted man is found dead outside Much Benham, the US army sends an officer to look it over.  An officer who ends up billeted with Inspector Slack's least-favorite spinster.





	1. Chapter 1

The Air Raid Precautions patrol had already checked the road, as they did each night, so Tommy didn't have to worry about anything except keeping the cattle from stopping to drink from the ditch again. Normally that would have been easy enough, but Tommy's older brother had enlisted in the navy four months ago, as soon as he was old enough, and their best herd dog, Rex, was still limping a full week after stepping on the piece of shrapnel. The ARP had been right embarrassed about that, especially after the vet had words with them about not having enough medications for both puncture wounds and the military's need for beef.

What it all came down to was that Tommy had no one there to help him keep the cattle on their way to the meadow instead of heading straight into the ditch. When he saw an odd lump in the ditch water, he chased the cattle into the field as quickly as he could. He kept the black bull from turning back to get another drink (right by the form, which was in the deepest part of the water), and locked the gate firmly behind them.

The cattle headed on to the pond while Tommy darted back to the ditch. He'd seen right, even in the dawn shadows, so Tommy ran back to Much Benham as fast as he could.

It was just like in the movies. That was a body in the ditch.

# # #

"Not a local," Constable Palk reported, dressed properly enough in his tunic and hat, although Sgt. Lake suspected the bulge in his pocket was a bacon sandwich for later. "The cow boy found him this morning just after dawn -- Tommy Gilroy was out moving cattle between pasturage, right on schedule. Tommy works for Farmer Owens, thirteen years old and reliable enough, if too eager to be old enough to go off to war and get away from farming." He left unsaid that they all hoped the war didn't last that long.

Lake had been born and raised on the London outskirts and happy to get away to a quieter life in Much Benham. (He'd never admit it had been a little too quiet, because that would explain what he was doing in the police.) He could see it working the other way around, too. He finished writing his own notes and then asked, "So the boy might have been a little overeager about finding a body?"

Palk's mouth twisted a little and he lowered his voice to admit, "No, I believed him about the body, Sergeant. It was the foreign uniform I didn't believe. Sorry, sir. I came out fast as I could anyway -- I mean, a body's a body and it is wartime -- but I didn't report it up the line immediately."

Lake gave him a mildly disapproving look, but not too hard, since Palk had both admitted it and explained why. He was the local man; they had to trust him to know the locals, after all, and which reports were really fallen bombs and which were hysterical spinsters. "Right. Well, now that we know that, how long after you got here did you get word to us?"

"Oh, maybe fifteen minutes," Palk said promptly. "As soon as I saw the uniform, I flagged down Miss Farrier. She was out on her morning constitutional. She spent the last war dispensing medicine in a Manchester hospital; she doesn't spook for much, and she's completely reliable. She went straight home and called it in while I stayed here."

Inspector Slack called over impatiently, "Did you touch his pockets, Constable?"

Sgt. Lake nodded a 'good work' to Palk as they both went over to the body. Palk started to say, "No, sir, not once I-- Good God."

He and Lake both froze, as did Dr. Roberts and the two ambulance women. Lake managed to ask, shocked, "Is that real, sir?"

Slack gave him a dark glance from under lowered brows and contemplated the two ambulance women skeptically. The Much Benham coroner said quietly, "We'll just step away, Inspector, and make sure we agree on what we haven't seen."

"It's probably a fake," Slack grudgingly admitted. "But it's damn well evidence in a murder investigation, so you'll all keep quiet about it."

The older ambulance driver snorted. "We know that, Inspector. We also know who else can keep their mouths shut. Do you want me to ask around?"

"No," Slack snapped. "We'll manage that."

She shrugged. "The police are as shorthanded as everyone else. Don't say we didn't offer."

"We'll manage." Slack repeated. He turned and looked at the ditch again, at the road that had lost any useful tracks to a herd of cattle, and rubbed his forehead before saying, "Right. You can have the body, Doctor. Report anything useful to me as soon as you have it."

Rogers just nodded. "Certainly." He took one end of the stretcher and helped load the body into the ambulance.

Lake strongly suspected that very soon the doctor would make an excuse to have lunch or dinner with Colonel and Mrs. Bantry and would decant information from them easily as port from crystal. Out of charity to his inspector, Lake even thought it was a good thing this murder was a good three miles from St. Mary Mead and the inspector's least-favorite elderly spinster.

Then he turned his attention back to the palm-sized (and real, he'd bet his next round at the local) whatever it was. Some kind of wide, fancy, hinged brooch with curlicue designs, animals' heads and enamel still showing here and there. Not his thing, but beautiful anyway as gleaming gold so often was.

For that matter, if this gold wasn't tied in with the presence of a body in the ditch, he'd eat his hat.

Slack was already getting the details out of Palk again and frowning. Lake crouched by the short line of belongings, ignoring the gold to look at the rest and list them into his notebook. On the top of the pile lay a chain and ID tags. American ones, the ones their men called 'dog tags.'

Now Lake knew why Inspector Slack looked so grim, and it wasn't just the gold. A dead Yank. Lovely.

# # #

Miss Marple accepted a hand out of the car, nodded her thanks to the Bantrys' chauffeur, and smiled another thank you to the butler when he opened the door into Gossington Hall.

"Mrs. Bantry is in the rear garden," Lorrimer explained to her. "Shall I take your coat, madam, or will you keep it?"

"Oh, if we're to be in the garden I shall keep it for now, thank you." Miss Marple looked around, her eyes bright with interest, and then politely looked away from the cluster of officers visible at the end of the east hall. Lorrimer nodded to her and moved to shut that door. It closed slowly, with a soft scrape of cloth on cloth; all sound vanished when it closed. Miss Marple ignored that, too, and moved through the house and out to the back garden.

Dolly's herbaceous borders looked as splendid as ever, despite the numerous men called into the war effort. She, too, had a vegetable garden taking over part of the lawn. "My, your peas look wonderful, Dolly, dear."

"They do, don't they?" Dolly Bantry straightened up from tying beans to poles and considered her garden with the air of an artist debating which corner needed work first. "And I've hopes for the marrows, too, finally. This would be the year they didn't try to take over the entire garden."

Miss Marple knew far better than to let her friend continue on the subject. "Yes, dear, most distressing for you if they had failed, but I would have been more than glad to give you some. Young Polly has turned out to be a fine gardener. Now, why did you really send your driver for me?"

"Oh!" Dolly stood up from her kneeling pad quite abruptly and said, "I'm so glad you came to ask me that first, Jane. Before they could tell you not to ask too much, which would have been quite ridiculous when Major McCormick seems like a sensible man even if he is American. Or do I mean especially for an American?"

"I've no idea yet which you mean, Dolly." Miss Marple walked back towards the house beside her excited friend, purse clasped in front of her in both hands. "Should you really be telling me anything?"

"Of course I should, especially if he doesn't, although as I said, I think he just might. Really, officially you're here so Arthur can ask you to billet a soldier. Unofficially, he's not just a soldier, he's American--"

"Yes, Dolly, I grasped that," Miss Marple said a little dryly.

"And," Dolly added, drawing out the best part as she so liked to do, "he's Army Intelligence, Jane. They've sent him because of the American who turned up dead in Much Benham."

"Oh. Oh, dear." Miss Marple blinked a few times as she thought. "Are you sure he's in Intelligence, Dolly? Shouldn't they have sent someone from their military police?"

"Army Intelligence, although Arthur said the dead man was an airman, so you'd think it should be the Air Force. Apparently the Yanks have fliers in both their army and navy-- Jane, that's not important. What is important is that Major McCormick's been sent here, rather than to Much Benham, and Sir Henry 'suggested' he be billeted with you -- which I suppose might be why here and not Much Benham, come to think of it. He's supposed to work with Inspector Slack, poor man. The Major being the poor man, I mean."

"Inspector Slack is very… industrious," Miss Marple said, frowning a little as she thought. "Really, though, why send anyone? And an officer at that? Surely American intelligence is as overworked as everyone else."

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Dolly agreed. "But if you don't think the major's told you everything after tonight, why then you can remember a cutting I promised you and come back, of course. We'll just have tea while you're here."

Miss Marple smiled at her friend. "Quite."

# # #

Arthur Bantry had been quite relieved to come out from the latest crisis meeting and find Dolly sitting at the table discussing the unsuitability of peppermint tea for early morning crises with Jane Marple. "Miss Marple, has Dolly told you…?"

"Of course, Colonel, I shall be most happy to house the major." She flushed a little and added, "Although if you could perhaps give me half an hour to ready the room, Major…?"

"Oh, yes. Of course." Arthur motioned between them. "Miss Marple, Major Matthew McCormick, of the US Army. He's here about that troubling matter in Much Benham. Sir Henry thought you might be willing to take him in for the duration of his investigation. Major, this is Miss Jane Marple. Friend of ours and one of the best gardeners in the county."

McCormick took her hand as he nodded to her, a motion more courteous than the efficient nods he'd given during Arthur's briefing to him on the local law enforcement, which known troublemakers were out of jail and in the area, and numbers to call for backup, should he need it. "Miss Marple. It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

"I'm most pleased to meet you, Major. Of course, I shall be happy to do all I can to assist," she fluttered. "With the war effort, of course."

"I greatly appreciate it, ma'am, and I assure you, half an hour is no trouble. If anything, I may be a few hours more than that, I'm afraid. Inspector Slack is coming," he checked his watch, "inside a quarter hour to show me a few things and answer some questions."

Arthur said dryly, "He'll have questions for you, Major, never mind that you weren't the man's CO."

"From what you've said, Colonel, I don't doubt he will." McCormick did look unflappable. Good. A man who could make major, even with a war this size on, ought to be able to cope with a police inspector without getting out of sorts. He had the steady air about him that Arthur had always looked for in his XOs, come to that. Might be why Sir Henry had acquired him for this.

"Inspector Slack does tend to think everyone should be able to answer him, but only on the questions he wants to ask, I'm afraid," Miss Marple said. Her cheeks pinked a little as she asked, "If it would help, Major, I could have teacakes or crumpets ready by this afternoon? Sergeant Lake is quite fond of my mother's cherry brandy."

McCormick's smile widened when she said that, although his voice was almost pious. "Is he indeed, Miss Marple? It would be a shame to deprive a man who's surely been working extra hours since the war broke out. What time should I try to have us there?"

"Whenever you are ready, Major. Fresh cakes will be ready by two o'clock, but tea is quickly made and I have some gingerbread that would be easily sliced if you should have to arrive sooner. Youngsters do like their sweets, and I've four in the house." She smiled back and Arthur Bantry frowned, wondering where he'd gotten the idea that they were holding a second discussion he couldn't hear. Dolly's eyes were laughing at something, but that could just mean she'd sorted out some problem with her garden.

McCormick nodded to Miss Marple again, not quite a bow, and said, "Thank you for that as well, then, ma'am." He reached inside his uniform and pulled out his ration books. "I believe you'll need these if you're being kind enough to feed me. If I've time, do you need anything from Much Benham?"

"Oh, no, thank you, Major. Such a stop would only infuriate the inspector. He finds me troublesome enough as it is." She busied herself tucking the ration coupons safely away in her purse.

Arthur harrumphed. "Alf will take your kitbag along when he takes Miss Marple home, Major, if that's all right. If you need to go to Much Benham, Miss Marple, well, we can spare the petrol, surely, what with you taking in an officer and all."

Miss Marple smiled at him, eyes twinkling. "Such a kind offer, Arthur, but I really think I should supervise dear Margaret and Agnes today. They mean well but they are still very new to service. I did the shopping yesterday, after all, and the bus to Much Benham does still run three times a week." She fluttered to a stop.

McCormick only smiled, remarkably patient with her meanderings, Arthur thought. "As you say, then, Miss Marple. I'll try to bring the inspector and his sergeant in for tea when they drop me off."

# # #

"Well?" Slack snapped.

Matthew ignored him for the moment, busy doing a methodical survey of the scene. The body had been found far enough around the curve of the road that Matthew couldn't see the train station at Much Benham, no houses in line of sight, a well-kept field that extended past the hills.... He paused, eyes narrowing, wondering what the rolling line of those hills reminded him of.

When the niggling refused to surface as anything useful, Matthew sighed and turned back to Inspector Slack. "My apologies, Inspector. I was trying to figure out what an airman from one of the worse neighborhoods in Chicago -- as thorough a city boy as someone from the center of London, in other words -- might be doing here in the country where the blackout conditions and every night sound should have spooked him, army training or no. He'd been assigned to an engineering unit; he was never alone in woods that his dossier shows."

Slack bit off whatever he'd been going to say and sounded faintly surprised when he asked, "Do you mean they sent me someone with police experience?"

Matthew managed not to laugh; he did smile. "Before the war, I was a detective for the Richmond police. I take it my superiors didn't mention any such thing to you?"

Now Slack relaxed a little. "No. They didn't. Said they were sending me an Army Intelligence man and hung up before I could ask for a sane, sensible MP if I had to have a Yank working with me."

Matthew just shook his head. "I rather think I know what happened, then," he said wryly. "I don't suppose you called the gentleman that term?"

"Not until the third time he wouldn't let me finish a sentence," Slack said briskly.

Behind him, out of his line of sight, his sergeant started laughing soundlessly. Matthew could well imagine that was the pot calling the kettle black. What he said, however, was, "Yes, well, my CO is from deep Georgia, sir. That probably doesn't tell you enough, so let me try it this way: effectively, you called a Scot an Englishman."

The sergeant winced and even Slack blinked. "Really. Thought you were all one big happy country?"

"No, sir. Few countries are, but we had a civil war of our own seventy-five years back. Some stories are still handed down in families. His part of Georgia had to completely rebuild after the Yankee army came through." Matthew shrugged. "Some Americans don't mind the term. Some do."

"Good. Now I won't insult by accident." On purpose might be another matter from the sound of it. Slack nodded and went back to business. "We were hoping you might have some idea what your man was doing out here, Major. There's no reason we know of. Much Benham's not a big town. We get some trouble, but nothing like London."

Matthew looked at him more carefully, then tilted his head up to look at the sky and petition for help -- with his patience if nothing else. He brought his head back down and rolled it side to side, wincing at the pops. A long walk tomorrow dawn, definitely. A slow exhalation helped regain his temper as did the water-tinged breeze starting to gust around them. He looked up and evaluated the clouds. Yes, rain coming and damned soon.

Mathew finally said, "Inspector, might I suggest we pool our knowledge? By which I mean I don't think my people have told you nearly enough, and since I don't doubt you've noticed it, I imagine you've not felt inclined to share your hard-earned information any earlier than necessary yourself."

Slack blinked once or twice, then. "Well. Seems I didn't have to ask for a sensible MP. Right, Major. Tell me about it from your side, all of it. Lake, notes. And don't interrupt. I said they hadn't told us a quarter of it."

The sergeant pulled out his notebook then blinked and looked back when another buffet of wind rifled the pages. "Going to pour soon, sir."

Matthew checked his watch and said, "The lady who's agreed to billet me said she'd be glad to make tea whenever I, or we, got in."

"It's not top secret, God knows, although it's nothing for--" Slack froze, face and body braced against some blow, and said grimly, "St. Mary Mead."

Matthew raised an eyebrow but agreed, "That's where I'm billeted, sir. Sir Henry Clithering and Colonel Bantry recommended--"

"Miss Marple." Slack made it sound like profanity. His sergeant, on the other hand, was grinning and not trying to hide it.

The first rain splashed down, huge drops that forced Lake to pocket his notebook. Matthew shrugged, "Tea and fresh cakes, Inspector. Shall we go accept the lady's offering?"

Slack wheeled and turned for the car, growling, "She'll only hear anyway…."

Matthew ran back to the car beside Lake; even Slack had abandoned his dignity in the downpour and was running ahead of them. The sergeant just chuckled and spoke his first words around Matthew other than 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir.' "He'll be fine, Major. Miss Marple drives him crazy is all."

Matthew dove for the backseat and left it at that for the moment.

# # #


	2. Chapter 2

Slack didn't start back up in the car, to Matthew's surprise. Matthew leaned forward to let his coat drip onto the footboard and hoped the man would continue to wait until they were inside. Sir Henry Clithering might have retired from being head of CID, but all that meant was that the man could handle the necessities that Scotland Yard shouldn't touch officially. It also meant that Matthew, at least, was willing to listen to his advice. The question was whether Slack would.

Lake kept the police car on the rural road easily enough, despite the pouring rain. Matthew watched the route back, already planning an early morning run back here that should give him uninterrupted time studying the area.

Slack said abruptly, "Sir Henry is involved in this?"

"He stopped in at our headquarters while I was being briefed and strongly suggested that I try to stay with Miss Marple. Apparently, he passed the same word to Colonel Bantry." Matthew waited for the explosion.

"And he 'suggested' that you discuss the case with Miss Marple, I take it."

Matthew pointed out mildly, "He did, saying she's remarkably sharp. She certainly seemed so in the few minutes I had to meet her this morning. My grandmother was from a small country town and always knew more of what was going on than the local clergy did -- or she was more willing to discuss it, not being bound by any vows."

"So you're going to tell Miss Marple everything," Slack said, apparently disgusted.

"Anything I'm not oath-bound to withhold? Yes." Matthew shrugged. "The former head of Scotland Yard wants the lady involved, Inspector. The man still has enough influence that my own superiors allowed him to sit in on my briefing. He also tells me that she most assuredly can keep a secret or six, and that she's solved any number of mysteries and a murder or two. I have a death which my superiors badly want explained and a mystery in that I don't know why they're so upset. It was made very clear to me that while a cover story may yet be necessary, I had damned well better not try to feed one to my chain of command."

Matthew added grimly, "I agree with that, by the way."

Slack grunted, despairing and accepting in the same sound. Lake pulled up in front of a small, neat house. Curtains had twitched in several windows as they'd passed and Slack shook his head, muttering about interfering busybodies. Lake turned the car off and said, "They were all going to know he's here by the time Miss Marple showed up at the shops with extra ration coupons, sir."

Slack just grunted again and dashed through the rain to the house, pounding on the door in a manner Matthew wouldn't have hurried to answer. Someone opened the door anyway and a moment later Slack passed through. Matthew and Lake followed, arriving as the inspector handed his coat and hat to a ridiculously young maid. Slack asked, begrudgingly, "Miss Marple at home?"

"I'll just go and see," the girl answered. "If you'd like to wait in the drawing room, sir?" She sounded as if she'd learned the words by rote and Matthew smiled at her, hanging his own coat and hat rather than bothering her with it.

Matthew entered the indicated room, unsurprised to find Sgt. Lake following him. A moment later, Inspector Slack came in and settled into a chair by the fireplace. Matthew looked around the room, smiling a little at the dark timbers overhead and the solid old furniture scattered throughout. He glanced out the window, shifting the lace only long enough to see the rain was still pounding down.

Lake settled into a chair by the table with an air of familiarity and pulled out his notebook and pen. Slack started to say something; he fell silent again when Miss Marple came in.

"So good to see you again, Inspector Slack. And Sergeant Lake, always a pleasure. I do hope your family is well?"

Lake stood up, smiling at her, as fond of her and amused by her as his inspector wasn't. "We're doing just fine, Miss Marple. We weren't anywhere close to that bomb that came down last month. I'll tell my wife you asked after her."

Slack, too, had risen for their hostess. He said reluctantly, "Miss Marple. Thank you for the hospitality."

"Oh, of course, Inspector. Such dreadful weather. If you wish to talk here, I will be happy to keep my girls busy elsewhere. That should keep the villagers from asking Major McCormick too many questions."

Matthew couldn't keep from chuckling. "Surely they'll still ask? They just won't expect to get answers. They must know I have orders, ma'am. Surely they know by now you won't tell them anything, either?"

"Oh, but I'm familiar, Major. They may not hope for much, but they shan't have to nerve themselves to speak to an American military officer. So daunting, the double layer of foreignness. Well, except for Colonel Bantry, of course, and then there was Colonel Protheroe…." She twittered to a pause, flustered.

Slack sighed, but his mouth had relaxed from that tight line. Matthew smiled a little and told her,   
"True enough, but I shan't have to live here after the case, ma'am. If it would keep your life easier for me to be the one to deny them answers, please feel free to send them along."

Slack said, "Don't let us--" Matthew could almost see his pride being swallowed down. "If you'd care to stay, Miss Marple, the major has orders to value your opinion."

"Close enough," Matthew said mildly. "I can't say Sir Henry's in my chain of command, but close enough. If you'd care to stay and hear the facts from the horses' mouths, ma'am?"

"I should enjoy that very much, Major, thank you. Just a moment… Come in, Margaret."

The maid who'd opened the door for them came in carrying a tray with a tea service; another maid, equally young, followed behind with a plate of small cakes and gingerbread.

"Thank you, Margaret, put that here, please." Miss Marple indicated a small table. "And Agnes, you may place the cake tray on the center table." Miss Marple waited until they'd left again before asking, "Tea, gentlemen, or something stronger? It's such a wet day."

"Tea, ma'am, since you've made some. Thank you." Slack seemed to have resigned himself to the interruption and intrusion.

Matthew found himself handing around saucers and glasses and accepting a slice of gingerbread. Lake somehow ended up with a small glass of cherry brandy to wash down his scone. Even Slack looked a little happier after he'd had a hot cup of tea and some food.

"You were going to say, Major?" Slack set his cup down on the saucer and both back on the tray, clearly done with civilities and back to business.

Matthew took another sip of his tea and said mildly, "I was saying I'll tell you what we know if you'll return the favor, sir. So. Private first class Johnny Branbury, age twenty-two at time of death. He was not someone we wanted in the army, and the judge who gave him a choice of the army or prison should have known better."

Lake looked up from his notebook, eyes lighting up. "Prison? What was he charged with?"

"That time? Forgery. The defending attorney -- barrister here, Miss Marple -- accepted a plea bargain of _nolo contendere_ and immediate enlistment in lieu of jail time."

"And the judge agreed?" Slack frowned though, some train of thought moving fast.

"The judge knew both Branbury's previous record -- pickpocketing and second-story work -- and the quality of the evidence. A jury might have let the man go, since the arresting officers had been a little too thorough in keeping him from 'resisting arrest' and blurred the dye evidence on Branbury's hands in defensive bruises." Matthew shook his head. "Idiots, but the corruption of Chicago's police is neither here nor there."

"Then American police are that bad?" Lake asked curiously. "I always thought that must be the movies overdoing it." He visibly remembered Matthew had been American police and added, "Not that I meant you, Major."

"No offense taken, Sergeant." Matthew shook his head slightly. "In any number of cases… no, the movies don't overstate it. It's improved somewhat in the last few years, but the police here are still more civilized. Or perhaps better controlled. That's as may be, and not really relevant to this, I hope."

Matthew leaned forward and refilled his cup, raised an inquiring eyebrow at his hostess, and refilled hers as well when she smiled and nodded. He sat back, cup cradled carefully in his hand both for the warmth against his skin and to protect the fine porcelain. "So. Branbury enlisted, did passably in basic training, showed an aptitude for machinery which I personally would have found worrisome with his record, and was assigned out to an engineering unit keeping jeeps and jackhammers working. He served well enough in France… and somehow ended up back here months before his unit is due to rotate back."

Which should never have happened, and Matthew left it at, "My best sergeant is tracking down where those orders came from. As of this morning, he'd had no luck yet."

"But someone brought him back from the front? And early at that?" Slack's frown was starting to take up permanent residence. Miss Marple tsked softly and poured him more tea. He sipped absently and said, "No. No one told us he had a criminal record. We knew he was military: his tags and the haircut."

Miss Marple murmured gently, "Surely both of those could be acquired, Inspector?"

"British Army boots, maybe, Miss Marple. American uniforms are harder to get here." But he glanced sidelong at Lake who nodded and made a note to double-check.

Matthew closed his eyes, pulling up the memory to consider that. "Yes. The boots were US Army service issue. I rather think your body is, or was, American."

"You're more familiar with the various uniforms, yes, Major. If you need another look, we can take you over before the body's released." Slack glanced out the window; even through the lace, the air was still thick with rain. "Was your man AWOL, Major?"

Matthew said grimly, "Interestingly enough, Inspector, no. Our first information that he was missing came from your notification of his death."

"Are you quite sure he is who he should be?" Miss Marple asked, then flustered, "I don't know that I phrased that correctly. I mean, are you sure that the Inspector's body is your man, not simply someone who had his identification papers?"

Matthew nodded slowly in appreciation of her point. He was having no trouble seeing why Sir Henry had 'suggested' talking to Miss Jane Marple. "I believe I understand you, ma'am. The body I was shown has scars matching those listed on the criminal record of the man arrested repeatedly in the States. We have a cable out to his engineering unit asking about any identifying features or injuries during his service, both to make sure that the body retrieved is in fact that of the Johnny Branbury who served with them and to account for a new scar that isn't listed in the bulletin from the States."

Miss Marple passed him another scone; apparently it was noticeable that he'd missed lunch. Matthew smiled a thank you before going on, "In addition, I saw the dead man's hands. Whoever he was, I rather think he's been forging, or possibly counterfeiting: Five colors of ink, wide paper cuts, and what looked like acid burns."

"Do you think he's your service man or not, Major?" Lake was giving him the same curious look Matthew's own Sergeant Greely had given him, a mix of 'Are you putting me on?' and 'Do you really think it's going to be that complicated?'

"I think the odds are good that he's the right man, Sergeant Lake, but either way, I have a problem. If it isn't Branbury, then we don't know who's actually in the mortuary, where the real Branbury is, or how Branbury bribed this corpse to take his spot in a military unit sure to end up near the front lines again. However. If it is Branbury, someone pulled him back from the battlefield early -- pulled him back and covered for him so well that it took a corpse showing up for the Army to notice that there's a problem. If that's the case, then, at the least, there's someone in my army's bureaucracy who's taking bribes from person or persons unknown, for reasons unknown. "

Lake winced sympathetically. "Right. Either way, you've got a mess."

Slack pointed out, "Your records say Branbury was a petty thief who kept getting caught. A man like that isn't likely to have the self-control not to get caught until he shows up in England two years later. Even with the Front as incentive, thieves don't usually change that much."

Matthew finished his tea and set the cup down as gently as his hostess's guest china deserved. "I agree, Inspector. No, I don't think he suddenly gained a wide streak of self-control, not at his age, not even with the Front shoving his own mortality down his throat. But if he hasn't changed, then not only do I have someone taking a bribe in our personnel department, but I also have someone keeping Branbury under control until now. Which leads to the question of: are they the same person?"

"There is another possibility, Major, although I must say it sounds as unlikely." Miss Marple hesitated when all three of them turned to her. "It's remotely possible that both of your ideas could be right. If someone had the power to bring the corporal back, could they not also have an… expendable worker who could cover up the corporal's disappearance. Such a nasty way of thinking about human beings, and yet we speak of the war grinding people up as if they are bits and pieces. Why wouldn't organized crime think the same way?"

Matthew frowned. "It's surely possible, Miss Marple, but in my experience, you need a powerful underlying motive to hold a group together so tightly. Organized crime grew organized precisely because there were vast sums of money to be made. Political conspiracies organize for power or from desperation. I should think there would have to be a reason and a very good one."

Lake coughed into his glass and received a glare from his inspector. "Legible, Lake, not tea-stained. Or whatever you're drinking. I think someone else's control is more likely, Major, but yes, Miss Marple," Slack bit the name off before visibly reminding himself he was stuck working with her, "we'll make doubly sure it's an American military man. I seem to remember some department circulars about differences in American dentistry. We can check for it."

Slack turned back to Matthew who was now watching him a little more narrowly. "Acid burns, you said. What kind?"

Matthew said, "I've seen similar burns on the hands of men who work with etched glass and metal. Your people allowed me to send a couple samples to one of our chemists this morning, but I haven't heard back from him yet. My best guess so far would be that Branbury was making false papers, maybe embossing stamps to go with them. The dyes don't look right for counterfeiting money, although I'm not artist enough to make a guess on whether they could be used for that."

Matthew glanced over at Miss Marple. "By any chance, do you do watercolors, ma'am?"

"Not in many, many years, Major. But I would be willing to come and look at his hands if you wish."

Slack tried not to wince and mostly managed it. "Either way, you think we have a conspiracy somewhere with enough power to get him back or to keep him under control...." Slack looked more truculent than usual. "Acids."

Matthew returned the gaze with his best predatory smile. "Your turn, Inspector. Why do you think it's more likely he's under someone's control?"

"Right." Slack rubbed at his mouth, apparently regretting the deal. Matthew just waited. In the edges of his vision he could see Miss Marple waiting more patiently but every bit as intently. "Two mornings ago, we had a report of a body in a ditch. Boy taking the cows to new pasture found it and reported it in promptly enough."

"He did keep the cattle from 'assisting' with the investigation," Lake pointed out.

Slack ignored that. "The local constable investigated, found the man was dressed in a foreign uniform, and called us in. So. The uniform and boots were American military issue, but the coat over it all was civilian. He had his ID tags in a pocket, not around his neck."

"Did he have gloves?" Matthew leaned in as he asked, trying to picture this.

"No. Should he have?" Slack frowned. "It's only September."

"If he was so cold as to wear a coat, wouldn't an artist wish to protect his hands?" Miss Marple seemed to think it a good question. "Cold air feels so much colder on burns."

Slack gave that a moment's consideration before nodding his acceptance of the point. "You'd think so, yes. No, he wasn't wearing gloves. None in his pockets, either, were there, Lake?"

Lake flipped back in his notebook. "Pockets…. Right, here it is. American cigarettes, some coins, a wallet with a ten-shilling note we traced to Lambourn and a return ticket to Woodlands St. Mary, a handkerchief, and a chain and ID tags."

"That's all?" Matthew asked, surprised. "No military papers, no matches or lighter? For that matter, no art supplies? Pad or sketchbook, pencils or pen?"

Slack stood up and prowled around, checking for the maids. When he came back, he still lowered his voice to growl, "No. That's not all. Not a word of this gets out, understood?"

Matthew just looked at him. "I'm not going to compromise a case, Inspector."

Miss Marple simply said, "Nor shall I."

Slack exhaled forcefully before admitting, "Branbury had a piece of gold with him. Size of my palm, ornate animals and curls, enameled in places. A shoulder brooch I'm hearing it's called."

"Several ounces of worked gold," Matthew said slowly. "I'm beginning to see why you think an organization is likely. Is there anything else you didn't mention to us, Inspector?"

"I wasn't reporting that over a telephone exchange or in letters that could fall into the wrong hands." Slack didn't look apologetic at all. "It's the best lead we have."

Matthew said grimly, "Yes. And if I'd known about it…." He closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his temper down under the reality that the crime had occurred in someone else's jurisdiction and that Slack wasn't wrong about just how juicy a piece of gossip that would be, even – or especially – in wartime. 

Matthew finally said, "Done's done, and I surely see your point on the communications. So. Should I take it that there are no such pieces among the local gentry?"

Miss Marple looked up from the khaki socks she was knitting. "Oh, no, Major. Not in St. Mary Mead, nor, I should say, in the rest of the county. You've seen the Bantrys' house. Now before he died Colonel Protheroe had some very nice silver, but nothing such as the Inspector described." She sat there, eyes bright and considering some mental inventory list, then she shook her head decisively. "Perhaps in London. But I should think that was the closest you would find such a piece and even there, it would be in His Majesty's properties, or the one of the museums. Although in these days, they'd be… shipped away to safety?" Miss Marple looked up, bright blue eyes sharp and startled in the lamp- and firelight.

Slack nodded slowly. "Yes. Now that's a possibility. We'll report it up the line, see if anyone in London can identify it."

"Quietly, I'd suggest," Matthew drawled. "An organization might extend quite a ways."

"It might have been shipped somewhere to be stolen? If so, we'll catch them," Slack said confidently.

Miss Marple's needles had stopped flashing. It might have had something to do with the dwindling size of her ball of wool, but Matthew thought it more likely she was busy thinking.

The telephone rang and Slack waved them to silence. Half a minute later Agnes came to the door and said, "There's a call for Inspector Slack, miss."

Slack frowned. "How did they find me here?" He strode to the hallway to take the call without bothering to answer his question.

Lake ate the last of his cake and flashed a quick grin at Miss Marple. "Probably Constable Palk. No one else should know we're here."

"Oh, I shouldn't say that, Sergeant. Most of the village knows you're here, including Col. Bantry." Miss Marple took up her knitting again, still with that faint frown.

"Villages." Matthew nodded and pulled the next ball of yarn out of the basket, setting it to Miss Marple's right. "All the day's news and speculation over the shopping."

"Oh, yes," Miss Marple agreed. "Then it's just a matter of sorting the wheat from the chaff. Thank you, Major."

"Right." Slack strode back in. "Lake. We've got another problem." He turned to Matthew. "I'll be back tomorrow morning as soon as I've got this handled. Colonel Bantry's man can run you anywhere you need to go."

Matthew nodded and didn't comment on the appropriate of the Bantrys' chauffeur; he had a few plans of his own.

Miss Marple's gaze flicked from Matthew to Slack and back again but she only nodded. "Of course, Inspector."

Sergeant Lake put his plate and cup down. "Thank you for tea, Miss Marple. Always a pleasure. Major, you have our numbers if anyone tries to argue your access to the body."

"I do, Sergeant. Good luck with this one." Matthew watched them head into the hall, heard Lake ask what they had this time and Slack hold silent until the door had closed behind them. The rain was still beating onto the window panes behind him. With Slack's bristling energies gone, the room grew infinitely more peaceful despite the topic and the war.

"Another murder." Miss Marple tsked softly as she finished her row. "That is not a good sign at all. Most distressing for the family, of course, if there is anyone to grieve. But if the killer is feeling pressured…." She trailed off, inspecting the sock closely.

Matthew glanced sidelong at her. "Murder, ma'am? You're thinking that it would take another death to pull Inspector Slack away from this one?"

"Oh, yes. He's hoping it will be simple, I'm sure, and quickly sorted, but that's most unlikely. If it looked simple, Constable Palk would have said so, whether it is or not, and they'd have taken more time with you over tomorrow's plans." She flustered to a stop and drank the last of her tea rather than waste it.

Matthew smiled and put his own teacup down. "And to tell you that you shouldn't go study a dead body? I rather doubt that's a new sight to you, ma'am."

"I've done my share of nursing," Miss Marple agreed, using a crochet hook to catch up a missed stitch. "There." She capped the needles, rolled the sock around them, and tucked them neatly into her basket. "Shall we call up to the main house and ask for a ride, then?"

"I don't know yet, ma'am. I would like for you to see the man's hands, yes, but I also need to meet the Air Raid Patrol today as well. Do you have any suggestions on how best to do that?"

Miss Marple looked up. "To ask them questions, Major?"

"Not just yet, no." Matthew helped her gather up cups and plates onto the tray. "I need to make sure they know what I look like before tomorrow. I need to get my morning run, in case the Army in its infinite wisdom sends me to the Front—" he smiled at the skeptical look Miss Marple gave him, "and a run out to the crime scene and back is far less than the drill sergeants make us do in training."

Miss Marple nodded in appreciation. "You must of course get your daily constitutional, Major. Well, then. I've a spare umbrella. Come and meet my dear Griselda."

# # #

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> _Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:_  
> 
> 
> ARP: Air Raid Patrol.
> 
> Yes, Dr. Roberts really was the Much Benham coroner canonically; Miss Farrier I invented. (Much Benham is larger than St. Mary Mead; surely they have some spinsters of their own…) Yes, Miss Farrier working dispensary during WWI is a nod to Dame Christie. And during WWII, with so many men in the army, female ambulance drivers and medics were common. 
> 
> Lorrimer is also canon, as are Dolly and Arthur Bantry. Miss Marple's current house servants are London girls who've been evacuated; since they're there, she started training them up to trade positions while the war goes on as she usually does with girls from the local orphanage. (For the curious? Yes. She most certainly is paying them. Not much since they're not very skilled yet, but the same rate she'd have paid the orphanage girls.)


End file.
